


Santa Monica (I am Still Living With Your Ghost)

by MasterofPuppets



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - GTA, Alternate Universe - GTA V, Fake AH Crew, GTA AU, GTA V AU, Gavin is the Pet, Geoff is an asshole and I'm sorry, Geoff is the Boss, Jack is the Brain, M/M, Michael is the Mouth, Ray is the Eyes, Ryan is the Brawn, fem!Jack, ghost fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-08-22
Packaged: 2018-04-04 16:13:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4144191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MasterofPuppets/pseuds/MasterofPuppets
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based off of Santa Monica by Everclear.<br/>~~~~<br/>Ray and Ryan live a content life of chaos, crimes, and frantic sex.  When that gets cut off abruptly, Ryan finds out how truly lost he is in so many ways.</p><p>((I'm bad at summaries frick there's more info in the tags than this tbh))</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on this for a long long time and finally got around to finishing the first chapter. I have the main plot all planned out so I should be finishing it and I hope someone likes it enough to be interested in it at all. This is my first published fic, and honestly I'm trying really hard to make it decent. Thank you so so much for reading!! 
> 
> (p.s. I'm kinda looking for someone to beta chapters and fics pls lmk if you're interested at all)  
> 

“Ray!” The scream rang out as loud and piercing as the shot before it.  
Los Santos police already flooded the streets around the intersection, many of them dead already. The more time that passed, the more cops came for back-up, and the higher the chance of them being caught or killed was.  
Geoff's hand gripped the collar of Ryan's shirt and yanked him back into the car before he had a chance to do anything more, growling, “Ryan, you fucker, we don't have time! We gotta go! Michael, fucking floor it!”  
“What the hell is wrong with you? We've gotta go back! Ray's out there! He's hurt!” Ryan yelled at him, using all of his weight in an attempt to force open the door, despite the child lock Michael had turned on.  
“Ryan, Ryan! H, look.” Geoff was trying his hardest to remain as calm as possible. Ryan was in a full frenzy now, and that was what made him dangerous. Within a matter of minutes, he could easily slaughter everyone in a 500 foot radius. And naturally, the other four in the car would be the first to go. “Ray's dead, alright? He was shot dead, and I'm sorry, but we all saw it. We are _not_ turning this car around.”  
“You don't know that!” Ryan argued. “He's probably just bleeding out alone in the middle of a swarm of fucking cops!” Michael and Gavin exchanged a grave look in the front seat, but no one said a word, driving further toward Sandy Shores, where they'd go their separate ways.  
It was Jack who spoke up this time from the other side of Geoff, voice cracking, “He was shot in the head, Ryan.” But at this point, Ryan was refusing to speak again. The rest of the ride was the longest of any of their lives.  
They finally made it out of Los Santos, split their takeaway, and parted ways to lie low. Ryan stood in the sand after the rest had left, feeling utterly lost. Normally after a job, he and Ray would go back to their place and have wild sex. It was a sort of ritual. Now what was there for him to do? He didn't want to think about it. He just wanted to get home and try to find some sort of distraction.  
He slid into the seat of his car, and drove home numbly. Dragging himself through the door, he stashed his take, fell onto the couch, and dissolved into tears. Fuck.  
Ryan Haywood was undoubtedly the most feared man in Los Santos, if not all of San Andreas. Maybe he wasn't the toughest (that was Geoff), or the smartest (Jack), or even the most skilled shooter (Ray). But he held a certain wild streak to him that made him unpredictable and inexplicably dangerous. He was essentially the definition of “trigger happy”; at any moment, he could snap, slaughter a dozen people without a second thought, break a man's neck with a single jerk, blow up a whole line of cars. Ryan was the Fake AH Crew's wild card, the muscle and gun power. He was the one on whom they all counted for man power. And when paired with Ray, the two were utterly unstoppable, with Ray's precision and sharp eye, and Ryan's keen senses and ease with any weapon. They were always each other's back-up.  
One thing that no one expected the Most Feared Man of Los Santos to be doing after a big score was lying in a ball, crying his eyes out. Ryan was acutely aware that this went against the entire reputation he had built up over his life in San Andreas. Fuck it. Ray was gone and all he had was a huge gaping hole in his life. No one could see him, anyway.  
It turns out it's not so hard to fall asleep when you're crying, or to sleep through an entire day.  
It would have been easy to stay sleeping for eternity and never get up again. As much as he wanted to do that, just let himself fade away on the couch, he had to eat something. There was some pig-headed part of him that couldn't let that happen.  
In the back of his mind, piled under all of his muddled, murky thoughts, was that of the possibility that this was the end of the Fake AH Crew. Ray was their best sniper. Ray was the best of them at a lot of things, including breaking up their nearly constant fights with each other. Geoff could be insensitive as fuck; he didn't seem to give a shit who he pissed off; he called the crew “family,” but that didn't seem to mean shit to him sometimes. And it was no secret that Ryan was easy to piss off. Surprisingly, however, he wasn't the easiest; that title fell to Michael. Michael and Geoff could go at it forever, and the others would often join in on one side or the other (usually, it was Gavin on Michael's side, Ryan on Geoff's, and Jack was never really sure). Ray was the one that would get their attention by yelling just to tell a completely anticlimactic joke, or would try to pull Ryan off of Gavin before he actually hurt him. Ray was what kept them all sane. Now, without him, what was going to happen? Ryan couldn't tell if he even cared. If the gang split, if they stayed together, did it really matter?  
***  
Ryan continued to steer clear of the bedroom; he knew the bed would smell of Ray, and frankly, that scared him. He refused to even leave the house. His days were filled with television shows he didn't care about, and drinking he couldn't stop. After the first two days, he still wanted to bawl his eyes out, no matter how much of a burly, tough killer he was, but he just couldn't seem to. The tears just wouldn't come.  
Five days after Ray had been killed, Ryan received a knock on the door. No way he was going to answer it.  
“Ryan!” Jack's bellowing voice came through the door; she was somehow quiet and yet filled a room with her voice at the same time. Ryan just turned the TV up more. Ignore it, and they'll go away.  
“Ryan, you better open the goddamn door. We know you're in there, you're not as fucking smart as you think you are!” Jack had brought Michael with him. Still, he didn't budge.  
There was a quiet clicking noise coming from the door, and by the time Ryan could figure out what was happening and jump from his chair, Gavin was staring at him from his still-crouched position, eyelevel to the doorknob.  
“You picked my goddamn lock?” Ryan growled at the three of them. “That's a little unnecessary, don't you think?”  
Michael ignored his complaints. He had no problem matching Ryan's grumpy aggression. “You haven't left this fucking house in a week.” A _week?_ “And dude, you stink. Like, badly.”  
“I don't care!” he snapped at the younger man.  
“Alright, fine, whatever you say.” Michael half-stomped over to the TV and flipped it off. “Geoff wants a meeting.”  
“Geoff can kiss my ass!” Ryan hadn't forgotten who it was that yanked him back in the car, made him leave Ray. There was no way he would ever forget that.  
“C'mon, Ryan, ya gotta come. It's for the good of the gang,” Gavin insisted, joining Michael while Jack stayed toward the door.  
“So, what, more of Geoff trying to justify abandoning him?” Ray's name remained caught in his throat. “Passing it off as a simple casualty? Fuck him.”  
Michael glanced at Jack and sighed, sounding more frustrated and done with the whole situation than sympathetic. “Look, you don't have a choice in coming. Your choice is in whether or not you keep your dignity and remain without a few bruises. You gonna get in the car like a big boy or not?”  
Not having the physical or emotional strength to further fight them off—and not wanting to sacrifice his dignity either—Ryan dragged himself out of the apartment. The Most Feared Man of Los Santos, made his first public appearance since the incident clad in worn-out clothes and a bathrobe, with a scraggly beard and filthy, greasy hair to finish it off.  
The ride to Michael's place was nearly as tense as after the heist. Even just staring out at the streets of Los Santos made Ryan's limbs feel weak and his eyes sting, but they didn't water. No crying. He angrily reached over the center console for the radio knob, determined to distract himself.  
Geoff, of course, was waiting for them leisurely on the couch, as if it were his own house. He never ran any operations from his place; no one was sure why, and no one really questioned it because he at least took care to make sure his boys were covered well enough. Ryan was half-expecting some cynical comment from their leader, a reason to bite his head off the second he opened his smart, entitled mouth.  
To his surprise and slight disappointment, Geoff stood to greet Ryan almost like a civilized person, not quite extending his hand, but offering a sad, concerned look and asking how he was.  
Ryan wasn't up for it, not from him. He sat down cooly, acting as if he were still Ryan Haywood, the Most Feared Man in Los Santos, professional cold-blooded killed, and not Ryan Haywood, pathetic bum who desperately needed a shower.  
“What do you want, Geoff? Let's get this over with already.”  
Geoff sat back down, wringing his hands thoughtfully, considering the best way to go about the discussion.  
“We lost a valuable member of the Fake AH Crew,” he finally started. Jesus, wait to make it sound like an impersonal eulogy. “Which means we are short a man. I know it's shitty, I know it sucks, but we gotta. I've got a few—“  
Ryan sat up abruptly. “ _Replace_ him? You wanna leave Ray to fucking die and replace him just as quick like...like he's some fucking object? Like he's just a fucking car or another cop or a clip that fell out of your goddamn pocket?”  
“Haywood,” Michael mumbled simply. It was incredibly rare for him to side with Geoff, especially on something like this. In fact, it was even more rare for Michael to be the one to try to prevent a fight, but Ray's death weighed on more than just Ryan. Michael and Ray had been good friends long before Ryan lived in Los Santos, long before the start of the Fake AH Crew, and for a little while, it was just Michael and Ray, before Gavin and Ryan and Jack and Geoff had joined the picture.  
Ryan didn't even consider that, spitting in his direction, “What, Michael? You want me to shut up? He murdered Ray, and now he's trying to replace him like the bumper of your fucking car, and you want _me_ to shut up?”  
Seeing Michael's face start to turn red, and his temper begin to make an appearance, Gavin interjected, “Lads! Try acting like Los Santos' finest, huh?” Both men sat down, glaring at each other.  
“You think I'm not upset about Ray dying?” Geoff asked Ryan quietly, trying his best to keep his voice level. “He was my brother as much as the rest of you. I know you were closer to him than the rest of us. I know you're fucking upset. I know maybe you don't think it's a good time to talk about this, and maybe it's not. Jack was right next to him, she saw it, she saw Ray get shot. Say we went back; we'd have lost the money, and probably been arrested or killed too. You know the LSPD, they're fucking reckless. You pull something like we did, they're not just going to stop you, they won't lay off till you're goddamn dead. Is that what you want? You want all of us killed?”  
Haywood glared daggers at him. He had a point, Ryan knew that, he wasn't stupid. Just stubborn as hell. And upset.  
“It's pretty shitty of you to talk about replacing Ray a week after his death, Geoff,”said Michael, though without the hostility Ryan had. “Especially to his boyfriend. Just because we got away with our last heist doesn't mean we should immediately start on our next one. I mean, Jesus, give Ray a little respect.”  
“Fuck it,” Geoff sighed, standing and making his way to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, turning back and pointing in the general direction of the four. “You don't want to talk about the Crew? Fine. I'm sorry. I won't be the asshole here any more than I have to. I have better things to do with my time. But if we don't talk about it soon? We're fucked.” With that, he left them all awkwardly sitting in the wake of everything that had just happened in the last ten minutes.  
Ryan glanced at his 'colleagues' and at himself. “Sorry, guys.” Probably the best apology he'd ever muster up.  
Jack sighed and turned to Ryan. “Listen. We've got some heat on us right now anyway. The cops are looking for five people, right? Forget what just happened, Geoff doesn't know how to deal with this. Lay low, get out of Los Santos, maybe. Do what you need. Just don't lose sight of the Crew.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am incredibly sorry this took so long. Life has been wild, hopefully chapter 3 won't be that slow coming.  
> I like this chapter a lot more than chapter 1 tbh and I'm pretty proud.
> 
> If you leave kudos, please consider commenting, that would be really nice! <3

Los Santos has a way of making a person feel utterly caught up in all of its bullshit. Everything in Los Santos is in fast-forward, and the vast majority of its inhabitants are just as superficial and egotistical as they're made out to be. You never realize how lost in it you are until you take a step back.  
In some cases such as Ryan's, a “step back” means dropping absolutely everything, driving as far away from Los Santos as possible, and finding any motel with an opening. Here, in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere, San Andreas, was where Ryan realized how fast life in Los Santos moved. There, he had let seven days pass by without a second thought. Here—wherever **here** was—it was hard to let seven _hours_ pass. He couldn't figure out if this was an improvement or not.   
Eventually, Ryan ran out of cash. The rest was all at home, there was no way for him to use it. “Lying low” had lost its fun,anyway, and the Crew kept trying to contact him.  
The apartment felt somehow both more and less empty than when he had left. It was exactly how he'd left it; unlocked, clothes and filth everywhere, couch cushions messed up. Lonely.   
Scavenging through the kitchen, Ryan found half a six-pack of beers he'd forgotten about. Not quite enough, he decided after downing them, and left.  
He'd successfully drank what he figured at the time to be the bar's whole inventory by the time he spotted Geoff across the street. What the hell was Geoff doing out right now, and better yet, where was he going that he was on foot and not in a car?   
Follow him. That seemed like the best idea. It was slow coming, but Ryan finally caught up to the building in which Geoff had disappeared, right around the corner (though it seemed miles away). It seemed to be a large apartment building, similar in size to Michael's. Was this...Geoff's house? Geoffrey Ramsey's house, which no one in the Crew could seem to find, the ultimate Fake AH legend?   
Walking up to the door, Ryan stopped, searching for the doorbell. He wasn't sure exactly what was going to come out of his mouth when Geoff answered, but he could feel it bubbling up. The door swung open and with it his mouth, but stopped right before the words tumbled out.   
Standing before him wasn't Geoff Ramsey, self-righteous head of the most powerful gang in San Andreas, as he expected, but instead a tall bleach blonde woman with many tattoos and a nose piercing. She stood in a much different way than Geoff would; gentler, less pissed off, more curious, with her arms crossed.   
“I'm...” Ryan stammered drunkenly, unsure of his thoughts. “I'm Ryan,” he finally decided.  
“Are you looking for Geoff?” the woman asked. He nodded, and she disappeared, replaced soon by Geoff, who looked surprised and...scared? Was that what it was? Ryan had never seen Geoff like that, not without some sort of weapon to his body.  
“Ryan, what are you doing here? Is anyone with you?” his leader asked, quietly and all at once. Taking one whiff of him, he added, “Dude, have you been drinking?”   
Ryan ignored all of these questions, trying to look past Geoff and figure out where that woman had gone. “Who was that girl?” he slurred. His leader sighed and ran a hand through his hair.   
“That's my wife, Griffon. You're not supposed to know she exists. Look, dude, you're way trashed. Come here.” He grabbed the much larger man's arm and dragged him inside. “I'm going to call you a cab, and you're going to go home and go to bed, okay?”   
“You have a wife?” Ryan couldn't seem to wrap his intoxicated mind around the concept of Geoff Ramsey, tough old prick, having a wife, a whole other _life_ that his Crew, his very family, didn't know about.  
“Yes, and I'm only telling you because you likely won't remember where this place is tomorrow. Where have you been? Have you even been to your place?” He sounded genuinely concerned, something Ryan found odd.   
Ryan mumbled something about how he had just been there earlier, and they didn't say much else. The cab arrived, and Geoff saw to it that the driver actually got him home.   
***  
Walking in, Ryan threw his coat on the ground and was about to flop down on the couch when he froze. Sitting there, in his normal spot, DS in hand, was Ray Narvaez, Jr. The same one that had died three weeks ago. He looked up and Ryan nearly fell over.  
“You're not here. What is this?” he finally gasped out, heart hammering in his chest.   
His deceased partner looked confused. “What are you talking about, Ryan? You okay?” He sighed, sounding disappointed. “You're drunk.”   
“That's right! I'm drunk. You're just a dream. Some stupid, horrible nightmare. Go away!” Ryan was frantically trying to calm himself down in hopes that the vision would go away, but he could still hear the blood rushing through his ears.   
“Ryan, go to sleep. I don't like it when you're drunk. I'm not a dream, I promise.”   
The man gaped for a few more minutes before stumble-running to the bedroom and locking the door. He must have fallen asleep or passed out, because the next thing he remembered, he was waking up with his head under the pillow and the feeling that his brain was pounding against his skull on all sides, desperate to be free from its cage. Moaning in pain, he stumbled into the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a handful of aspirin.   
Leaning against the countertop, he tried to recall everything that had happened the night before. Something about Geoff and a lot of walking. Ray. Ray had been there.  
No, that's not right. Ray's gone. But...Ryan couldn't get the vivid memory of him last night out of his head. He remembered him saying “I'm not a dream,” and remembered locking himself in the bedroom.  
He sent Jack a text, practically begging her to meet him to talk, coming off crazier than he'd been. What did he need? Jack wanted to know, she was dropping Caiti off at the airport.   
_I just need to talk, asap and preferably anywhere but my apartment._ Ryan sent, along with another cryptic message or two. The ellipses showing that Jack was typing popped up for a long time. _Ok, fine. Just go to my apartment, about to leave the airport._  
***   
“What the hell is up with you, dude?” Jack asked as she walked into her home, already knowing that Ryan had let himself in from the busted lock. Ryan was not delicate nor skilled with a lockpick; he preferred a gun or something else of high damage.   
“Jack, what do you know about ghosts?” Ryan asked the moment the words were out of her mouth, stopping the pacing he had been doing. Jack glanced around, confused, trying to figure out what to say.  
“Ghosts? Why would I know anything about ghosts?” Ryan shrugged in response.   
“Okay, well, why the fuck do you need to know about ghosts?”   
Ryan looked over at her, expression hard to read. “I saw Ray last night,” he finally said quietly.  
Jack looked at him skeptically. “What, you mean, like in a dream?”   
“No, not in a dream,” Ryan spat hostilely. “I mean I saw Ray. Like, in real life, in the living room. Except...” he seemed stuck.  
“Except Ray's dead?” she hesitantly finished for him. Ryan nodded. “Yeah.” It felt weird to say it out loud. It stung.  
Jack stared at his Crewmate for a long time, taking a seat at the dining room table. She sighed and twirled a strand of her bangs. “I don't know a lot about ghosts. I don't know who would know a lot about ghosts. You really think he was a ghost?”   
Ryan nodded again. “I know he was real.”   
Looking Ryan up and down, Jack could see how much he was struggling. The look in his eyes was not dull, as it had been when they had met at Michael's, but shone with a mad type of hope. He was convinced that he had seen Ray, that Ray was still in that apartment. But Jack also saw a shadow of a doubt there, that Ryan needed some sort of confirmation that he wasn't going crazy. Maybe that sort of confirmation would be the only thing that kept him from actually losing it.   
“Yeah,”she started slowly, unsure still if she should really say what Ryan wanted to hear. “Yeah, it could definitely be a ghost.” Regret tugged at her the moment the words left her mouth. Ryan's face flooded with relief and satisfaction, and he made for the door without another word.   
There was a reason he was called the Most Feared Man of Los Santos. Even Geoff was scared of him, though he would never in a million years admit it. Jack had never really felt this fear like she felt now, having fed the cold-blooded, trigger happy killer's insanity.   
She sighed and poured herself a drink.


End file.
